


His Fate

by sunflower_ducks



Category: Sally Face (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Drug Use, Gen, Horror, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26430241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower_ducks/pseuds/sunflower_ducks
Summary: Larry needs the itching to stop.  [One-shot.]
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	His Fate

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of feelings about Larry.
> 
> Sorry D:

They’re supposed to have dinner together tomorrow night.

How could he possibly forget? He sits scrolling through his old text messages, faint smiles tugging at his mouth as he reads them again and again.  _ don’t u dare miss it larry _ from Ash, and he can almost see her finger waving in his face in warning;  _ 7 pm larry face, remember _ from Sal, and Larry thinks,  _ Larry Face _ , and feels himself warm with affection like clockwork.

If he could sit here scrolling through these old messages forever, he would. Just to delay the inevitable; just so he’d never have to confront the source of his roiling stomach, do what he knows he must to put a stop to the itching at the back of his skull.

But he needs to do it. He needs to put a stop to it, now, before it consumes him entirely. Larry needs the itching to  _ stop _ .

In a sudden fit of pique, he throws his phone; it lands harmlessly on his mattress with little more than a muffled thump, and the pathetic sound brings him back to himself. Larry breathes deeply  _ (it’s not like him, he knows it’s not like him, he doesn’t throw things when he’s angry. He doesn’t get angry like  _ that _ ) _ and turns back to the sketchpad propped on his knee.  _ Sal _ , it reads.  _ I know this is gonna be hard for you to understand. _

His handwriting’s a lot messier than it usually is, and that’s saying something. His hands won’t stop shaking. He’s already drunk, just a little. He’s nearly drained his third beer at this point, and he knows he has to be careful, otherwise he’ll start hurling and then the pills won’t stay down long enough to…

He just—he’s  _ scared _ . Scared of what he’s about to do. Scared of what it might feel like. Scared of what he’s only half certain waits for him on the other side. Mostly, he’s scared of what might happen if he fails. If the itching at the back of his skull doesn’t stop, if the whispering gets even louder, if he starts actually  _ listening _ to the things it’s telling him he wants to do.

When he closes his eyes, he can see it, formless and fathomless and dark, with its red gaze piercing straight through him.

He thought this was over.

It was supposed to be  _ over _ , all those years ago, when they blasted that fucker into oblivion.

But now the fucker is back, alright, and it’s in his head, and it’s whispering to him in an ugly voice and changing him already. He can feel it changing him, bit by bit, and he’d rather die than not be Larry Johnson anymore. Rather break his friends’ hearts than hurt them any other way—the ways the demon keeps insisting to him he wants to ( **_swine at the feet of God, fit only for the slaughter!_ ** ).

So he sits here and he writes his suicide note and addresses it to the best brother he could have ever asked for, and he drinks himself into a state of tentative courage so when the time comes he’ll be able to do what he’s set out to do. If only his hands would stop  _ shaking _ .

His skin feels itchy, and he wants to scratch himself until he bleeds. He knows it’s not him that’s uncomfortable. It’s that  _ thing _ . There’s a small bit of satisfaction in knowing he’s not the right shape. Wouldn’t want to make things  _ easy _ for old Red Eyes, now would he? This body just ain’t big enough for the both of them. Larry smiles vindictively at the thought, but the expression fades instantly. He knows if his body isn’t big enough, the demon is simply going to force him out to make ample room for itself. He can’t let that happen. He can’t, he can’t,  _ he can’t _ .

His friends. Todd and Ash and… and Sally. Jesus Christ, he can’t let this happen. He can’t, because—

_ I love you, Sally Face. Always. _

He’s always loved them so much more than he’s ever loved himself.

**oOo**

His hands are still trembling as he tacks the note to the tree, but once he’s pulled them away, they suddenly cease. He could easily pull the note down, but he knows he isn’t going to, and something intangible feels as though it’s been settled. His stomach calms, just a bit. He’s really doing this. His friends will be safe, and at long last, the itching will stop.

He climbs into the treehouse, last remaining beer bottle tucked against his body like something precious. The only shaking left now is from his inebriation. His pockets rattle.

They’re supposed to have dinner together tomorrow night.

He thinks about that as he settles himself on the floor of the treehouse, drinks some more.

He thinks of his friends, their faces, their smiling eyes. Thinks of  _ Larry Face _ . Daydreams, for a while, about moving in with them, the four horsemen reunited just like they always planned, and what life could have been for them if not for the  _ thing _ waiting just beyond the fog. He thinks  _ if only we could’ve conquered that thing _ , and  _ if only it’d stayed dead _ , and  _ maybe we could still do it _ —and that, he thinks…

That would be nice. Like dinner tomorrow would be nice.

But then he thinks of his friends ripped to shreds, their faces gone, their screaming-bleeding eyes, and he thinks of himself being the one to do it, and he thinks of  _ enjoying _ it, and he just—he just can’t. He’s not strong enough to face that, not strong enough to avert it, so instead he’ll just…

He’ll text Sally. Once the deed is done. To give his brother a warning, and one last goodbye.

He twists the cap off the bottle of pills.

**The End**


End file.
